The Mercenary (31 page)

“Couldn't they tell he was, well, not legit?”

Lee glanced at Axe but he was still staring at the other picture—the full-length shot of the pilot.

“My guess is he is legit. Or was at one time. This is a guy who has slipped into and blended on three air bases. He can obviously ‘talk the talk and walk the walk.' What's up, Axe?”

“Haven't seen his picture in a while. Why d'you have it here?” He leaned on the desk and stirred his coffee.

The others looked up, surprised. “What are you talking about?” John Lee waved a hand at the mess of papers and photos. “Who?”

“Who? Him . . . who else?” Axe nodded at the full-front surveillance shot that had been covered by the enlargement.

Lee and the agent looked at each other and Karen Shipman moved closer. Finally, Abbot cleared his throat. “You, ah . . . you know this guy?”

The pilot snorted. “Of course. Where'd you dig up the picture?”

“I didn't dig it up from anywhere.” Abbot leaned back and gazed up at him. “Who is he?”

“Why do you have a picture of him?”

Jolly Lee exhaled. “We think this guy is our killer.”

For a long moment nothing happened then, to everyone's surprise, Doug Truax burst out laughing. “That's impossible.”

“Why is that?”

Axe reached over and tapped the picture. “Because he's been dead for nearly five years.” He turned, sat in one of the chairs, and folded his arms smugly.

“This picture,” Lee quietly replied, “was taken from a security camera at Shaw Air Force Base . . . this morning.”

It was Axe's turn to look surprised and he inhaled sharply.

Couldn't be. It just couldn't be.

The man was
dead
.

He'd been to the funeral.

Chapter
24

“ . . .
l
ate breaking news from Sumter, South Carolina . . . Local
authorities and a spokesman for the U.S. Air Force confirm a death at Shaw Air
Force Base near Sumter. The body of a senior military officer was discovered
around twelve noon today. No cause of death is confirmed at this time but
terrorism is not suspected and the State Law Enforcement Division is working
closely with federal authorities. The name of the officer hasn't been released
pending notification of the his next of kin. This is WRHI, Rock Hill, AM
Thirteen Forty . . .”

I
know his name
. The Sandman smiled, turned to a
station with music, and glanced at the dashboard clock: 3:34. He'd hoped to be
across the next state by the time Halleck was discovered. As it was, he'd just
passed the town of Wilson, east of Raleigh, North Carolina, and had another
sixty miles to the line.

State Law Enforcement, the radio had said, working
with federal authorities. All military bases were federal installations but the
feds rarely intruded, even with a capital crime. So they've finally connected
the killings, he thought. About time, and not unexpected. What did they have? he
wondered. There were no financial or electronic trails to follow, so it had to
be surveillance. Or the few personal contacts he'd made. Or both. Still, they
wouldn't have gotten much of a look at his face—he could be almost any pilot.
And they couldn't have traced the car.

Or could they? He frowned. Anything was possible
and he'd stayed alive by believing anything could happen. The FBI commanded much
larger resources than any state law enforcement, plus they could field
helicopters. And put up roadblocks. With that thought the Sandman changed lanes
and took the next exit at the town of Rocky Mount. Making the green light, he
slowed to the posted speed limit and headed east on Highway 64.

T
ruax
very gently took the photo and held it up to the light, looking carefully. It
was the way the man was standing. His posture. Axe had seen it a hundred times
before. Stood next to him, in fact. He peered at the face. The cap and
sunglasses obscured most of it but the downward angle of the camera had caught
part of the cheekbone and the chin. Axe nodded. It was
him
.

“Axe.” Karen Shipman's voice was soft.

Unmistakable. Impossible—but unmistakable.

“Axe.”

Truax handed the picture back and exhaled.

“So you know this man?” Abbot prodded. “Who is
he?”

Axe looked at Jolly Lee. “Stormy.”

The other pilot's mouth literally dropped open and
his eyes widened. He'd personally known Kane very slightly. But by reputation
. . . the man was, or had been, nearly a legend in the closed world of
fighter pilots. Of course. That chin.

“Stormy?” The agent sounded impatient. “That's this
guy's name?”

Both pilots were still staring at each other.

Axe finally glanced at Abbot. “That's his call sign
. . . like a nickname.”

“So?” the agent looked from one to the other. “So
who the hell is he?”

Doug Truax exhaled, folded his arms across his
chest and stared out of the window. “Kane,” he finally replied. “His name was
John Kane.”

“I don't get it,” Abbot frowned. “Why
‘Stormy'?”

“Hurricane. Hurra–Kane . . . Stormy
. . . get it?”

“Not really.”

“And every bit as dangerous as one,” Jolly Lee
added.

Axe shook his head slowly. “That's how he got the
name. Utterly ruthless bastard when it came to fighting. Weapons School Grad,
triple-war combat vet . . . not a finer pilot alive.”

“Right. I'm terrified.” Abbot tapped the picture.
“But is he capable of doing this?”

“No. He's dead.”

The agent rolled his eyes. “Okay. If he was alive
could he do this? All of this?” He waved a hand at the pile of maps and
papers.

Axe met Jolly's eyes, then glanced at the agent.
“Oh yeah, he could do it. He could've done it all and things you wouldn't even
think of. But you'd better pray to whatever god you believe in that I'm wrong.
That this”—he pointed at the picture—“is just an amazing look-alike and a
horrible coincidence.”

Fighter pilots, Abbot had learned, often hid behind
a shallow façade that masked much deeper feelings. In the brief time he'd known
these two men, he'd never really seen them serious. Now as he looked from one to
the other, he realized they weren't just serious—they were visibly shaken.

“John Barrett Kane,” Axe breathed quietly and
looked out the window. “God help us.”

H
e'd
been here before, long ago. A windy, late-summer day that had outwardly been
bleak and cold. But he'd been happy. His daughter had been a baby then, fat and
happy. And despite the chill, he and his wife had walked along the beach
dangling the little girl between them. They'd eaten she-crab soup, drunk wine,
and enjoyed the simple pleasure of being a small family. A pleasure he'd never
known.

Or would again.

The mercenary's hands tightened on the wheel. No
payback was equal to the lives they'd stolen but it was all that was left. He
couldn't have continued knowing they were living and breathing in the world and
his family was not. They were all gone now, those who were responsible for this.
Passing through Williamston, he slowed and stopped at a T intersection and
waited for the light.

They were dead.

All but one.

As the light changed, he turned left on Highway 17,
north for the Virginia state line.

“Y
ou're certain.” For once General Sturgis looked straight into Axe's
eyes. “No doubt?”

Doug Truax slowly nodded his head. “I knew the man,
General. We were in three separate squadrons together—including the Kosovo
fiasco and the Second Gulf War. We also went through Fighter Weapons School
together. You don't forget someone like that,” he added.

Sturgis leaned back, eyes closed. “Major Dwyer,
refresh our memories.”

The aid cleared his throat and referred to the
folder spread out on his knees. “Yes sir. John Barrett Kane. Commissioned a
second lieutenant after graduating from the University of Maryland. Pilot
training at Vance . . . standard RTU and survival courses. Arrived at
Spangdahlem Air Base, Germany, in the fall of 1988. Normal officer performance
reports. Awarded a Distinguished Flying Cross with Valor and some Air Medals in
the 'ninety-one Gulf War.”

“Did you know him then, Truax?” Sturgis
interrupted, still sitting with his eyes closed.

“No sir. I first met him at Nellis.”

Dwyer went on. “He, uh, attended the Defense
Language School at Monterey for Arabic and then did an exchange with the
Moroccan air force. Graduated Fighter Weapons School . . . did a tour
at Hill AFB, then back to Nellis with the Aggressor Squadron.”

“Was that normal?” Karen Shipman asked. “Seems he
should've gone off to a staff at that point.

“Too young,” Axe said. “Stormy came up real fast.
Besides, the Gomers—sorry, the Aggressors—really wanted him. That's where we met
up again. His combat experience and language ability made him a natural, though
he only did it for a year before they snagged him at the 422 Test Squadron.”

“I remember that now,” Lee chimed in. “That was
when the Block 50 version of the F-16 was finishing development.”

“Right. Stormy was one of the very few F-16
Patchwearers who'd been a Wild Weasel. They needed him.”

Sturgis waved a hand and Dwyer went on. “Superb
OPRs . . . lots of awards. Squadron Officers School . . . by
correspondence.” The little shit smirked at that and Axe wanted to punch him.
Stormy, like most fighter pilots, had been too busy doing real work to attend
the silly academic course the Air Force made all captains go through.

“Masters degree in aeronautics,” He looked up,
“from Duke. More flying. Shaw, Kunsan. Air Command and Staff College
. . . and back to Shaw for the Second Gulf War.” He whistled. “A
Silver Star and two more Flying Crosses with Valor.”

“A complicated man,” Karen Shipman remarked
quietly.

“So doubly dangerous.” Axe nodded. “Yeah
. . . Stormy was always a bit different.”

“In what way?” she asked, and Axe was surprised to
be annoyed at her interest.

“Oh, he could drink and sing and cause trouble like
the rest of us, but . . . I don't know, he never lost control or just
completely cut loose. Wild enough, but in a sort of quiet way.”

“I only met him once,” Jolly volunteered. “Just
before he left Shaw. His wingman ground aborted, so Stormy took off alone and
fought the four of us by himself.”

“How'd he do?” Axe chuckled, already knowing the
answer.

Lee looked at him, smiling sardonically. “He got us
all . . . the last two using only the gun.”

Axe chuckled. “Gun” shots, using the 20mm cannon,
were extremely difficult against other jets moving three-dimensionally at 400
knots or so. “He did that sort of thing all the time.”

“But why is he here, now, killing Air Force
officers?” Karen asked. “It wouldn't be random.”

“No, it wouldn't. There has to be some connection
between him and the others.”

Sturgis got up suddenly and stood facing the
window, gazing out at the brick buildings and overcast sky. He felt a drop of
sweat roll down between his shoulder blades and was glad to be wearing the blue
dress coat. He knew. Now that the man was identified, he knew. The others were
watching him, surprised.

“There is a connection,” Sturgis took a breath and
turned around. “Me.”

No one spoke.

Finally, Jolly Lee cleared his throat. “Ah
. . . maybe you'd explain that, sir?”

The general sat down heavily and stared at the far
wall. Axe noticed that his normally red cheeks were several shades lighter. “A
little over, what, five years ago, I was the Director of Requirements here at
Langley.”

“And for my benefit, what's that?” David Abbot
asked.

“This directorate within the staff, called A8, that
establishes future requirements and the budgets that match them. Equipment and
weapons . . . that sort of thing,” Jolly Lee answered. “

“And aircraft.” Axe was looking at Sturgis. “That's
probably the biggest piece of it.”

The general nodded somewhat absently. “Right. Well,
Jimmy Neville was the division chief of A-8T, the section of A8 that dealt with
the F-22 Raptor.” He cleared his throat. “The Raptor had been having
. . . difficulties . . . so the branch that was responsible
for the testing had a lot of . . . pressure . . . to, ah,
solve the problems.”

Axe shook his head slowly. To justify the enormous
budget and excuse the cost overruns, Langley tried making the Raptor into a
multi-use fighter. The F/A (Fighter Attack) -22. It hadn't worked. And would
never work. The aircraft wasn't designed for it, and in any event, dropping a
fifty-pound Small Smart Bomb from thirty miles away wasn't close
air-support.

“ . . . so we needed an expert to make
that happen,” Sturgis continued. “The A-8TT branch chief knew an officer with
the, ah, right qualifications.”

Truax remembered. “John Kane.”

Sturgis looked around at him. “Right. He was a
Patchwearer. An F-16 weapons officer with probably the most air-to-ground combat
time in the Air Force. He was also right here, finishing up a staff tour and
waiting for his next orders. An ideal choice, really . . .” His voice
trailed off.

The FBI agent was looking back and forth between
them. There was plainly more to the story than this. “So?”

“So the branch chief forced the issue—needs of the
Air Force and all that—and we kept Lieutenant Colonel Kane here.”

“And the branch chief was . . . ?” Karen
Shipman asked.

“Mike Halleck.”

Axe saw it all now, clear like the ringing of a
single chime on an enormous bell. “Son of a bitch . . .” he
exhaled.

“What?” Karen looked at him strangely.

“The reason he was waiting for his assignment to
come through . . . There was a sexual-harassment claim brought against
him, Axe quietly said. “Some woman in an O'Club claimed he groped her. The woman
had a shitty reputation but was married to a full colonel who knew a general
here at ACC and they pressed the matter. Even so, the case had been dropped by
the time this thing with the Raptor came up.”

She saw it too. “So they used it, didn't they? They
used this harassment issue to keep him here.”

“That's exactly what happened,” Axe replied, the
bitterness plain in his voice. “And then . . . his wife
. . . there was an accident.”

“I heard about that too,” Jolly said. “A car wreck,
wasn't it?”

“Not exactly. His wife was about seven months
pregnant and some medical nobody told her she had to use a hospital across the
James River someplace. Well, Stefanie, that was her name, was young and didn't
know the military and Stormy wasn't here to cut through the bullshit. So, she
and their little girl—maybe three years old—start across the bridge and she
hemorrhages. Stefanie got the car stopped and was calling 911 when a truck hit
the back of her car and sent it into the river.”

Karen inhaled sharply and John Lee looked away.

“A hemorrhaging pregnant woman and a little girl in
a car seat . . . they had no chance at all.” Axe added quietly.

“What did Kane do?” David Abbot asked after a
moment.